


Ivory and Dragonglass

by blotsandcreases



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Community: valar-morekinks, F/F, Kinkmeme, this got out of hand, valarmorekinks prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 14:19:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7895938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blotsandcreases/pseuds/blotsandcreases
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the valar-morekinks prompt on livejournal: "Rhaeneys follows in her father's footsteps when she and Sansa run away together to the free cities so they can be with each other . Both ladies left a letter to their families so that their absence wouldn't spark the embers of another rebellion."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ivory and Dragonglass

Sansa closed the doors to Princess Rhaenys’ apartments. Outside a storm raged black and blinding against the walls of Dragonstone. Here inside, Rhaenys was stepping into a hot bath, her discarded smallclothes stained with moonblood.

It was often that a storm from the Narrow Sea lashed against Dragonstone. It was less often that Rhaenys had her moonblood.

“I feel strangely normal,” Rhaenys remarked. She ran her fingers through her loose plait, shaking her black hair free. “My bath water has blood, but I do not feel pains. My mother aches when she has her moonblood.”

Sansa settled onto the stool by the bath. “When was your last moonblood?”

“Five moons ago.” Rhaenys tilted her head back so that Sansa could wash her hair. “That feels good.”

Sansa’s lips twitched and she continued massaging Rhaenys’ wet scalp. The tips of her thick black hair skimmed the stone basin by Sansa’s feet. “Five moons. That’s quite unusual.”

“It has always been like that for me.” Rhaenys hummed and closed her eyes. Sansa admired how the tiniest of candlelight caught in those thick black lashes. “Five moons between bleedings,” Rhaenys went on. “Or eight moons. Or three. Only the gods know.”

“At least you have moonblood,” Sansa said, tipping a bead of rose oil onto her palm.

Sansa’s nineteenth nameday had passed but her flowering seemed either shy or stubborn. She had written about it to her lady mother weeks ago, in Rhaenys’ solar, as Rhaenys weaved a cord of tiny golden suns with Sansa’s hair. Sansa received the reply yesterday with her lady mother’s assurances and with the report that Sansa’s betrothal was still in talks.

It was all that Sansa used to dream about. A pleasant time in a sun-gilded Southron court. A husband who was gentle and brave and strong.

Rhaenys turned her head to the side, her hand seeking Sansa’s damp wrist and giving her a comforting squeeze. “Worry not, my love. You have been to maester, yes?”

“Yes. He said that I’m a different woman. A different body.”

“And he is right.” Rhaenys sat up and peered around at Sansa. The firelight from the sconces skidded on her slick brown shoulder and added brightness to her large brown eyes. “A beautiful lady. I can make love to you after this. Aegon will not be visiting me with my moonblood.” Her lips curled. “You can ride my mouth.”

Sansa was long past the crippling shame but she could still feel her face reddening to match her hair. She suddenly felt a bit lightheaded. The gusts of wind outside and Rhaenys inside must have robbed her of breath.

“If it please Your Grace.”

“None of that, remember?” Rhaenys said, softly. “What would please you, Sansa?”

Quick memories of her times with Rhaenys forked through her mind like lightning. Words against shoulders, hot and sweet and filthy. Pleasure wrung out, wet and tight and toe-curling. Gripping the washcloth, Sansa kept her voice from quivering as she said, “You. You always please me, Rhaenys.”

*

When Sansa was eleven, she stood in Winterfell’s entrance hall so that she could say her goodbyes. She was bundled into her best furs of grey and white, warm enough for her journey down the Northern part of the Kingsroad. It was more than a decade after Robert’s Rebellion, and Sansa was to be taken as ward to King’s Landing.

Robb pressed a large ball of fine Northern thread to her hands and told her that he loved her. Arya grudgingly kissed Sansa on both cheeks and told her not to eat too much lemon cakes else she would be bloated enough to float away to the Sunset Sea, before grasping at Sansa’s hand to tell her to be safe. Bran clung to her furs and told her that he would soon be a page then a squire and that he would make a great knight like the ones Sansa loved in songs. Her cousin Jon, her lord father’s ward, gave her a pair of silver knitting needles and quietly told her that he hoped to see her again soon. Then Sansa kissed baby Rickon before she was engulfed by Father’s and Mother’s hugs.

Sansa sang to herself for most of the journey. She was told that she could sing well, and Sansa could make her own songs, too. When she and Arya sniped at each other, Arya always said that that was the only thing Sansa was good at, making silly songs. But Sansa loved the songs and stories, and her favourites included the one about Aemon the Dragonknight and Queen Naerys, because of their true and tragic love, and the one about the Storming of the Dragonpit during the Dance of Dragons, because the common people did something impossible.

Sansa had removed her furs when her party passed Maidenpool, and arrived in the Red Keep sore and hot from the ride. King Rhaegar had a soft smile when he saw Lady tucked in Sansa’s arms, whimpering fussily. Queen Elia summoned for a bowl of milk so that Sansa could feed her direwolf.

The queen didn’t resent her, Sansa learned as the years went by. The queen didn’t resent Sansa for being Lyanna Stark’s niece. Sansa was pleased to be invited to spend her mornings in the queen’s solar, with its overwhelming scents of lemons and blood oranges. The queen did her best to include Sansa in court. She lent Sansa songs and stories from Dorne. How different things were in Dorne!

“I never got the chance to talk to your aunt,” the queen once said. She was a delicate-looking woman, as if one strong gust that would uproot the lace pinned to her hair would uproot her as well, and the Grand Maester always urged Her Grace to drink fruit water to bring colour to her lips and cheeks. “But Prince Jon looks like her. She lives in his visage, I should think.”

“Prince Jon has a direwolf, my queen,” Sansa put in. “Ghost.”

The queen’s eyes curved into crescents. Her mouth never smiled, but her eyes did. “So he does. He did write to his father when he got the direwolf.”

Sansa politely took an olive and cheese from the plate the queen offered.

“A Northern name, Jon,” the queen continued. When the two of them talked about people, a safe topic, shared by the both of them and familial enough, would be Sansa’s cousin. “Rather like Jonnel, is it not? There was a Lord Jonnel Stark in the books.”

Sansa nodded. Lord Jonnel One-Eye was the husband and uncle of the Stark woman Sansa was named after.

Sansa was aware that her own marriage prospects included her cousin Jon, Lord Baratheon’s eldest Joffrey, and the Northern lordlings Benfred Tallhart and Clay Cerwyn. Her lord father was keen on marrying her and her siblings to Northern Houses, her lady mother said in the letter reporting Robb’s betrothal to House Mormont. But the king had other suggestions.

Another person that the queen spoke of freely in the solar was her daughter, Princess Rhaenys, who seldom wrote from Dragonstone.

“Wild, the ambassador from Tyrosh reported,” the queen said with a frown.

“The princess is merely a spirited young woman,” Lady Redwyne said as she poured tea for the queen. Lady Allyria nodded fervently.

“I know, truly. The gods know how my dear brother Oberyn is.” The queen sipped at her cup and gestured for Sansa to welcome herself to the teapot. “And do you know what the princess did after the ambassador insinuated just that to her?”

“No, my queen,” Lady Allyria said.

“No, my queen,” Lady Redwyne said.

Sansa shook her head, riveted.

  
The queen let out a disbelieving chuckle. “She invited him to hunt a wild aurochs, that beastly one in the Dragonmont woods. My daughter rides but she never hunts. She killed the mad beast, of course, and swung its bloody head that specks of its neck clung to the ambassador’s tunic.”

“My gods,” Lady Redwyne said, a hand over her scandalised smile.

Lady Allyria bobbed her head thoughtfully as if this was to be expected. Sansa thought that for Lady Allyria, who was of House Dayne, this must be. It was different there in Dorne.

“Aegon had been embarrassed and amused both,” the queen went on. “I received a raven from him last night informing me of the ambassador’s progress to King’s Landing, earlier than expected. He was asked to chastise his wife.”

Lady Allyria hid her giggle with her handkerchief. Sansa was both scandalised and amused. She would never embarrass her future husband.

“Of course that led to a row.” The queen sighed. “Aegon had always been meek to Rhaenys. They seldom dance when the occasion calls for it. They have not had a child yet. Rhaenys spends her time riding and reading and chattering in the inns. Aegon spends his hunting and looking over ledgers. Then Rhaenys would see mistakes on the ledgers and Aegon would feel horribly inadequate. Rhaenys would agree. Aegon often writes that Rhaenys cares for no one’s happiness but her own.” The queen set down her cup with a clink. “What do I do with my children?”

Indeed there had always been whispers in the castle about Princess Rhaenys. How improper she was. How she might truly be the granddaughter of Aerys II after all. Sansa looked forward to hearing about the princess from the queen herself.

Sansa was constantly surrounded by people in the Red Keep but she couldn’t help feeling lonely. Her comforts included training and playing with Lady, and reading about the Dornish songs of princes and princesses and paramours. They had been added to her favourites.

So when a prince was born to the queen in Sansa’s fourth year as a ward, Sansa excitedly leaned out of her window to watch as a cloud of ravens took to air with invitations for all over the realm for a tourney.

King Rhaegar named the baby Viserys, a little fussy bundle with wisps of white blond hair and squinting brown eyes. The king had a wide smile as he let the baby clutch at his finger and squirm, and His Grace told Sansa that she could have a new gown made for the tourney under the Red Keep’s household expenses.

Within a few moon’s turns, enough for the queen to regain her strength, the visitors started to arrive.

Prince Viserys the Elder rode from Summerhall with Princess Daenerys. Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne dazzled up to court, his arms open to his sister the queen, his niece the striking Princess Arianne Martell at his side. Tyrion Lannister arrived within hours from his father Lord Lannister, but Ser Jaime, the Kingslayer, remained behind at Casterly Rock. Lord Baratheon was a looming man amongst his family of golden heads, Lady Baratheon and her three children. His loud laughter was present when he caught sight of Sansa’s lord father, though. And it was all Sansa could do to keep from scampering towards her family.

Bran arrived with the Tullys for he was serving as page in Riverrun. Robb had Lady Dacey of House Mormont on his arm. Arya and Rickon were left in Winterfell, but Mother’s and Father’s arms around Sansa were more than enough.

The day before the start of the tourney, Sansa left Prince Jon to visit with his baby brother. She brushed her new gown herself to avoid wringing her hands in excitement. Jon had asked for her favour yesterday and she had quickly created him one using the silver needles he had given her years ago.

Sansa loved that she was asked for a favour. She hoped that Prince Jon would do magnificently well. He could win and crown her as Queen of Love and Beauty, just like in the stories.

Sansa’s heart was infuriating and still wouldn’t calm down, so she took a walk. She should have a companion but the keep was bustling and she had ever-growing Lady with her anyway, who was graceful and polite and who could tear a man’s arm clean gracefully and politely.

Sansa hummed to herself about Prince Daemon and his lover Lady Mysaria.

So absorbed was she that it took her some time before she realised that she was in the kitchen yard. The din inside was muffled by the closed wooden door but Sansa could hear a tapping nearby. Squinting against the afternoon sun, Sansa rounded the corner with Lady.

There were a lot of crates. Piles of them. Amidst the wooden mystery was a pile of black curls floating in the breeze. Sansa approached slowly.

A long, lean lady was perched on the crate, tapping a beat on the crate in front of her. She looked up at Sansa’s approach and put down her half-eaten blood orange. Sansa noticed the rows of tiny golden suns twisted around the lady’s wrists and the blood red beads on the lady’s riding gown. The lady tucked a black curl behind her ear and she smiled even though she looked surprised to see Sansa. This had to be Princess Rhaenys, the Crown Prince’s sister-wife, finally arrived from Dragonstone.

Sansa sank to a curtsy. “Your Grace.”

“You must be Lady Sansa.” The princess’ voice was raspy, a cloud of fog over shards of dragonglass. “That is a graceful direwolf.”

Lady had bounced to a stack of crates, nosing between the slats.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Princess Rhaenys daintily spit a few seeds on her handkerchief. “Would you care for a blood orange, my lady?”

“If it please Your Grace,” Sansa answered, and Princess Rhaenys blinked at her.

Tartness burst on Sansa’s tongue with the first wedge of the fruit. Princess Rhaenys gestured for Sansa to sit on a crate. The crate looked harmless enough to her gown so Sansa didn’t hesitate to do so.

“These came from Sunspear with my uncle and cousin,” Princess Rhaenys said. “Crates and crates of lemons and blood oranges, enough to turn citrus lovers’ blood into fruit acid.” She seemed to notice something on Sansa’s face because she brightened. “Oh, you love them?”

“Lemon cakes are my favourite, Your Grace.”

“The Water Gardens in Dorne is bursting with lemons. Everything has lemons in it in Dorne, even the perfumes.”

Sansa glanced at the princess under her lashes. Princess Rhaenys was unlike her father, with her quick smiles and cheerful voice, nor was she like her mother, with her deft and sure fingers when peeling the blood orange. Princess Rhaenys was comfortable chattering about her uncles and cousins and her uncle’s paramour in Dorne, asking Sansa about her time in King’s Landing, and giving Lady fruit. The princess’ boots and the hem of her riding gown were still dusty, clearly straight from the road, but she still looked carelessly put-together if such a thing were possible.

Sansa felt rather inadequate next to the princess. She hated feeling like that.

“Was Your Grace,” Sansa tried. “Was it the lute’s harmony in Nymeria’s Hymn that Your Grace was tapping earlier?”

Princess Rhaenys grinned. “Yes! Good ear, my lady.”

“The songs are really good,” Sansa said. “I love the songs.”

“Do you play an instrument, or sing?”

“Only the harp and bells, Your Grace. My singing voice is apparently sufficient.”

“You do know,” Princess Rhaenys said, “that I was tapping out the secondary melody of the lutes, yes?”

“I do, Your Grace.” Sansa breathed in. “I am very familiar with the stories and songs. I really love them.”

Princess Rhaenys was still grinning as she leaned forward. “So do I. No need to be shy about that.”

Sansa felt herself beaming in the face of that enthusiastic and citrusy grin. Arya had always teased her for her love for stories and songs, and the queen’s other ladies didn’t appear to be as engrossed as she was about the singers who played for the court, quickly diverting the conversation away from the performances.

Princess Rhaenys had a cook open a crate of lemons. She led Sansa to a corner of the cavernous and busy kitchen so that she could make them a Dornish drink called lemonsweet.

“Lord Connington always said that too much lemon would stuck one’s face in a grimace, Your Grace,” chirped the cook, Devon.

“My lord Hand believes that lemons are a southron obsession,” Princess Rhaenys said, with a blithe flick of her hand. “I believe that lemons practise your facial muscles. We cannot always be smiling with the sugar and the fatty delights. Lemons make your facial muscles well-rounded.”

Devon the cook stared, and slowly backed away when Princess Rhaenys dismissed him.

Sansa found the princess strange but amusing enough to soften her bewilderment.

Princess Rhaenys lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug and handed Sansa a cup. “People always look at me with some mild alarm. I have yet to understand it.”

The princess was six years older than Sansa so she knew of more stories and had strong opinions about them.

“But we don’t know where Nettles flew to,” Sansa said at one point. The conversation had drifted to the Dance of Dragons, and they were back in the kitchen yard with their cups and a jug of lemonsweet. Lady was alternately gnawing at a mutton beside Sansa and swiping at the lengthened shadows of the rustling leaves.

“I rather fancy the idea that Princess Jaehaera lived,” Princess Rhaenys said. “Then by some adventurous smuggling, she and Nettles escaped Westeros to live in Mys or somewhere else.”

Sansa frowned. “But Princess Jaehaera died.”

“Yes,” Princess Rhaenys said. “But what could be. What if.”

“Oh!” A whole new dimension to the stories Sansa loved was opening before her. “Oh! What if the Dragonknight really became Queen Naerys’ lover.”

“But the real mystery is if the Grey Ghost had an affair with the Cannibal.”

Sansa let out a startled laugh and almost choked on her lemonsweet.

Princess Rhaenys had a lot of clever things to say about the stories and she found a lot of things amusing. Her full lips were the colour of blood orange and were very pretty. And she had such thick and long dark lashes. Sansa found herself tousling Lady’s fur so that she could wipe the dampness off her palms. She didn’t know what to be nervous about.

Before Sansa knew it, dinner would soon be served and she had been there for hours.

“We must sit together tomorrow, Lady Sansa,” Princess Rhaenys urged as dusk settled around the kitchen yard. “Your family will be sitting with mine on account of my brother Jon.”

On the morning of the tourney, with stretches of blue sky against rows of brightly-coloured tents around, Sansa held Bran’s hand as they made their way to the seats. Bran was not serving for their great-uncle Ser Brynden today, and his eyes were wide as he took in the other knights clanking around with their squires. Bran started babbling when the royal box came into view, the breeze ruffling its red and black draperies and the sunlight glinting off the white cloaks of the knights flanking it.

Princess Rhaenys’ red and orange silk shawls fluttered about her as she gave her favour to Prince Aegon. Her politely indifferent face bloomed into a smile when she turned and saw Sansa and Bran’s approach. She complimented Sansa’s gown of white silk, grey velvet, and fresh pearls, and seemed endeared at Bran’s rapturous gaze at the Kingsguard.

“Ser Loras is quite good,” Princess Daenerys commented at one point. Joffrey Baratheon had just been led off the field.

Sansa clapped politely when Ser Loras and Prince Aegon took their positions.

“I hope you have not taken to betting, dear sister,” the king said in his mild tone.

“No,” Princess Daenerys said as Prince Viserys informed them, “But our Princess Rhaenys is the notorious gambler, is she not? Are you for our prince this round, princess?”

“I suppose,” Princess Rhaenys replied breezily.

Sansa saw the faint crease between the queen’s brows.

“Aegon has your favour,” Princess Daenerys said.

“Oh, I am quite aware.” Princess Rhaenys squinted at the field. “If I were to bet for this round, though, and if I intend to win, I would put my dragons for Ser Loras. Aegon is not a good jouster.”

Sansa tried not to stare with mild horror at the princess. The king finally turned his head to glance at his daughter. In the rows around them, Sansa could hear the excited rustle of the ladies’ fans and the softs coughs of the lords.

“Which I never did understand,” Princess Rhaenys continued, “since he frequently hunts. I would have thought he has more strength to stay astri – oh there we go.”

Prince Aegon fell to Ser Loras, in a creaking and clanking of black and red armour.

Ser Loras eventually fell to Prince Jon, which made Sansa clap enthusiastically.

In the end, Prince Oberyn emerged as victor and he crowned his niece Princess Arianne as Queen of Love and Beauty. Sansa thought he was a magnificent winner, very magnetic and fluidly deadly.

Sansa walked with Princess Rhaenys to the banquet, and on the way Princess Rhaenys languidly plucked orchids from the shrubbery garlanding the stone paths. On the point of convergence of the stone paths stood a pavilion with long, laden tables.

Sansa was thrilled to see platters of lemon cakes.

“What did you think of Ser Loras?”

The princess looked genuinely curious, unlike the small talk Sansa often employed herself. And Princess Rhaenys had been brutally frank, almost terrifyingly tactless, so Sansa considered what to say.

“He’s an excellent horseman,” Sansa said as she put three lemon cakes on her ceramic plate. “But when his horse passed by us, I couldn’t help but think of its eyes. They look disturbingly like raisins, Your Grace.”

“What?” Princess Rhaenys laughed. “Do you not like raisins, my lady?”

An odd flush of pride warmed Sansa at the sound of that amused laughter from an amusing lady who made Sansa laugh more in a day than she had in four years. “Well, no, Your Grace,” Sansa said. “Poor grapes. Little squires serving cruel knights.”

The lords and ladies closest to them glanced over at Princess Rhaenys’ loud laughter. Sansa blushed for the two of them, but she felt doubly pleased now that the princess laughed again.

Princess Rhaenys held out two stems of the orchids she had plucked to Sansa. “For my amusing friend.”

Sansa could feel her mind squealing at being called a friend, and by clever and beautiful Princess Rhaenys as well, so she wasn’t fast enough to put down her half-eaten lemon cake and the little plate to free her hands.

“I – Your Grace – I’m honoured.”

And because Sansa was not quick enough to sort herself, Princess Rhaenys stepped closer and tucked the orchids into the grey velvet sash of Sansa’s gown. This close, Sansa could catch a whiff of lavender on the princess’ thick hair, and Sansa briefly wondered why she was so flustered when she was usually quite good with attentions from the royal court’s gentlemen, even from the king himself.

Sansa wished she could stuff herself into a stupor with lemon cakes. The wild thudding in her chest agreed.

*

The hood Sansa was hunched into smelled of moths and the unimportant corner of a storage.

“Ugh,” Sansa groaned, and unstuck her tongue from her mouth.

Princess Rhaenys laughed, her eyes bright beneath her own hood. “Drink.”

With fruit-sticky fingers, Sansa grasped the skin of ale and washed down the taste of apricots from her mouth. “I’ve changed my mind, Your Grace,” she announced. “No apricot pastries for me.”

They were in the Street of Flour, sneaking into the bustle of people seeking bread. Bakeshops big and small jostled all over the cobbled street. Sansa and Princess Rhaenys had been there promptly after breakfast. A pastry progress. With disguised guards a few feet from their disguised selves.

“What about plums?” Princess Rhaenys gestured to the wooden barrel at the door of the Myrish bakeshop. “The baker would use them for those twirly cakes.”

“Not the plums,” Sansa said. She took another sip of ale. “And not the figs and cherries.”

“Lady Sansa, you fruit snob.”

“You are a fruit fiend, Your Grace,” Sansa said, mildly. She could feel a smile dripping on her lips. It was still a new feeling, talking like this to the princess, but Princess Rhaenys was quite easy and comfortable to talk with. “Every pastry and cake you have purchased has some clump of fruit.”

Princess Rhaenys retrieved the skin and took a sip. “And every cake you have got is positively rich with cream and butter.”

“There were ones with lemons,” Sansa pointed out, “and apples and mangoes.”

“Of course, lemons.” Princess Rhaenys huddled close to her as they stepped out on to the street. The scents clamoured around Sansa again, of moth-eaten hoods and the stink of the city, of fresh bread and the princess’ lavender perfume.

“I have the impression that you would go to war for lemons,” Princess Rhaenys told her with a solemn voice and teasing eyes.

“The Lemon War.” Sansa hummed. “I think I would. Why would there be a lemon war?”

*

“We got quite distracted with a lemon story, Mother,” Princess Rhaenys explained.

The queen was in her solar eating her midday meal, beef stew and cheese and olives, but Sansa thought she couldn’t possibly bear to smell any more food. She was stuffed full of cakes and pastries.

“You have been here for a moon’s turn now, Rhaenys,” the queen said. “I had thought that you will return with Aegon to Dragonstone.”

Princess Rhaenys broke her cherry cake into even smaller halves. “Aegon can hold it without me for some time, I am sure.”

“I was hoping,” the queen said, hesitating. “I was hoping that you would have a child by now. It has been four years.”

“Must we talk about this now, Mother?”

As silently as she could, Sansa set down her cup of lemonsweet and did her best to blend with her chair. Lady Allyria ducked her head behind her book and Lady Redwyne retreated amongst the curtains.

The queen’s voice was soft as usual. “You are hardly nearby during the day, Rhaenys, and now I can speak with you.” The lines around the queen’s mouth creased, as if she were smiling. “Seize the chance whilst you can, as they say.”

Princess Rhaenys pushed aside her cherry cakes and levelled the queen with a hard stare. With a snap of clarity, Sansa realised that the two of them did not look so much alike, after all. On Princess Rhaenys, the queen’s delicate wrists were coils of muscles looking like they were made to wrench at something, like the reins on a horse. On the queen, Princess Rhaenys’ vibrant beauty seemed like a painting in need of a retouch: the queen’s eyes brown instead of an almost-black and steady instead of snapping, the queen’s lips a plain unreadable line instead of curled in secret amusement. On the queen, Princess Rhaenys’ dark brown skin which didn’t betray a blush looked washed out and sandy and frail.

Sansa briefly wondered if she would ever sit across from her own lady mother like this.

“Well, Mother, I am taking the chance to breathe fresh air. I have missed King’s Landing.”

King’s Landing certainly lacked fresh air. It was impolite to stare, so Sansa directed her gaze to the crumbs on the princess’ fingers.

“My mother can be very insistent,” Princess Rhaenys told Sansa that evening. They were in the princess’ apartments, clutching cups of apple cider and perched on the window seat. “She does not often appear to be, though.”

Sansa turned her face away from the window. A gust was starting to pick up. “The queen,” she said, carefully, “must only be thinking of duties, Your Grace. All of us have particular duties.”

“This life is all duty, it seems.” There was a wry tilt to Princess Rhaenys’ lips. She leaned over to a circular table to reach for the flagon. “Marry Aegon. Produce an heir. Manage a household. Everything laid out as soon as they bundled me into my swaddling clothes. They did not even ask me what I thought about it.”

“It’s for the realm,” Sansa said, frowning. “And for Your Grace’s royal House.”

When she turned to look at Sansa, the princess’ dark eyes were magnificently beautiful and steady as she said, “How about you, Lady Sansa? What are your duties?”

These, Sansa knew. Sansa would never forget. “Honour my House,” was her prompt answer. “Marry the man my lord father chooses for me, do my duty by my husband’s House, and manage his keep and lands.”

“Do your duties sound pleasing?” Princess Rhaenys asked. “Hearing them said aloud?”

“They’re my duties,” Sansa said. “They don’t have to be. At first.”

“And yet duties seem to vary. You are familiar with the customs of Dorne?”

Sansa nodded. “Your Grace’s cousin Princess Arianne is heir to Sunspear. She is the first born, with two younger brothers, and – and. Oh.”

“Indeed,” Princess Rhaenys said. “Why are my duties and yours roughly the same even though you have an elder brother and I have none? It is all very relative, is it not?”

Sansa couldn’t say anything to that. They finished their cups in silence. Outside the window a cold wind was sweeping past the castle and gaggle of shops and houses. Sansa shivered, but it was not entirely due to the chill.

Eventually, Sansa ventured to say, “What do Your Grace do to amuse or please you whilst doing your duties?”

Princess Rhaenys brushed a curl from her face. “Ride around Dragonstone. Read. Make friends such as yourself, Lady Sansa.” Princess Rhaenys smiled. “Oh, and fiend for fruit, let us not forget.”

A giggle burst out of Sansa without her permission.

“How about you, my lady?”

“Seeing the southron court, with its sun and knights and tourneys,” Sansa said. In her mind, she quietly folded away her earlier conversation with the princess, for later perusing however shaken yet drawn she was by it, so that she could enjoy this one. “I love the stories,” she continued, just as a trifling in her mind started. “Lately I’ve been making up stories within them as well.”

*

The princess did set out to leave after another moon’s turn, but not for Dragonstone.

Since she often found herself in the company of Princess Rhaenys, Sansa volunteered to help her pack her carved chests for a visit to Sunspear.

And before she could doubt herself and let shyness muffle her, Sansa also gave the princess a small knitted satchel.

Princess Rhaenys beamed at her and leaned over the pile of folded silk gowns to kiss Sansa on both cheeks, leaving those spots warm and tingling. “I will write to you, Lady Sansa. There must be plenty of stories in Dorne that we have yet to hear.”

There were indeed plenty of stories. Sansa frequently received chatty letters from the princess. Spending time with the children in the Water Gardens. Riding and hawking with her several cousins and orphans of the Greenblood. Playing a board game called cyvasse with her uncle Prince Oberyn’s paramour, a woman named Ellaria Sand. Feasts and games hosted by Prince Doran’s bannermen as Princess Rhaenys made her progress.

And in one letter, several moons later, Princess Rhaenys wrote: _"My little bag by you has become a veritable greedy monster. A fiending, bursting fruit monster. I did all my best to keep the impeccable knitting in shape. I could have sent to you all the fruits that made it in the bag in a crate, but the fiend and I devoured them.”_

Sansa burst into giggles, her book of songs falling onto her lap. The queen, Lady Redwyne, and Lady Allyria looked up from their sewing.

“Laughter makes you even more beautiful, Lady Sansa,” the queen said. “May we know who has the honour of making you laugh?”

Sansa could feel herself flushing. “If it please Your Grace, it’s Princess Rhaenys’ letter.”

“Ah, my daughter’s letters. Come as often as the snows in King’s Landing.”

Sansa stared. Princess Rhaenys’ letters came almost as often as the storms in Storm’s End.

“I take it,” the queen said, her keen dark eyes on Sansa, “that that is not the situation with you, Lady Sansa.”

“No, Your Grace. The princess is an excellent and thoughtful correspondent.”

“Girls and their friendships, my queen,” Lady Redwyne put in with a chuckle. “My daughters and nieces are as close as sisters.”

The letters were very adventurous when compared to Sansa’s sedate routine: sew, read, train and play with Lady, stroll in the gardens with some ladies of the court, visit the sept, write to her family, write to Princess Rhaenys. Write to Prince Jon, who was visiting the Wall and other northern Houses. Wait for her flowering. Sometimes Sansa folded music sheets with her letters to the princess, rhythms inspired by Lady’s heartbeat or prowl.

And so on the eve of her sixteenth nameday, it was a surprise when a septa summoned Sansa from the library with a hurried, “Princess Rhaenys has just arrived and wishes to see you in the entrance hall.”

Sansa was almost out of breath when she rounded the red pillar to the entrance hall. “Princess,” she gasped out, robbed of breath by both her trot and by the sight in front of her, “you didn’t say anything!”

Princess Rhaenys’ tall figure was windblown. Her hair was in a black tumble, her red riding scarf having slipped from it to fall around her shoulders in a dusty and carelessly elegant loop. Her dark red lips were chapped from the wind, but they still curved into a pleasant grin. “I was hoping to surprise you for your nameday, Lady Sansa.”

Whereupon Princess Rhaenys introduced Sansa to a troupe of Dornish singers and musicians who played a little symphony of the songs Sansa had sent with her letters.

Sansa could cry. She could let go of the last breath she still had but she had to gasp out in delight. She was vaguely aware of people gathering in the periphery of the entrance hall, and she glimpsed at Lady Redwyne’s amused face so the queen must be nearby. Princess Rhaenys looped their arms together as they listened, but for the final part the princess joined in to drum out the melody patterned after the thumps of Lady’s paws on a hunt.

“Well done,” the king said, emerging from a shadowy corner. “It is a delight, my daughter. My friends.”

Princess Rhaenys grinned at her father. “My dearest friend Lady Sansa delights in songs, Your Grace. She wrote these for me.”

Sansa blushed and beamed at the princess as appreciative murmurs and polite clapping rustled around the hall.

The next day, Sansa’s nameday, brought another gift. Princess Rhaenys’ present was a polished comb attached to an arrangement of preserved lemon flowers, white roses, pink orchids, and violets. It looked as if Sansa had a wreath on as she wore it.

She watched Princess Rhaenys ride a new golden sand steed in the courtyard, clapping whenever the princess galloped and passed a hurdle, so precise that she didn’t knock a bowl of fruit perched on the hurdle. Ser Barristan plucked a pomegranate from the bowl and gave it to the princess with a proud and polite smile.

Princess Rhaenys steered her horse and sauntered over to Sansa. “A pomegranate not for my dear knitted bag,” she said, holding out the fruit to Sansa, “but for you on your nameday, Lady Sansa.”

Princess Rhaenys looked so ridiculous with her cheeky grin, her lips full and a shade darker than the pomegranate, her black hair and orange and red scarves streaming behind her in the breeze. She was so agonizingly and strikingly beautiful, and Sansa was certain there was a matching ridiculous grin on her face because her cheeks had been aching for a while now.

The princess could have been a knight and Sansa already wreathed in her flower crown, and Sansa herself would propose marriage in a heartbeat.

That thought just crashed into Sansa. It gave her pause as she reached for the pomegranate. Her fingers met with the princess’, and Sansa’s other hand was damp as she gripped the wooden barrier. The trifling that had been in her mind made clicking and clacking noises, like several lemons rolling and knocking into each other on a kitchen table.

*

The lemons in Sansa’s brain cheerfully knocked into each other for the next few days.

She tried to sort them out. This was utterly unexpected, and Sansa had to be organised. She found herself staring at Princess Rhaenys a lot, now that she thought about it. Surely Sansa didn’t stare and didn’t admire her this much before? But now Sansa was very aware: of Princess Rhaenys’ raspy voice whenever she sang, of the sunlight gliding gold on her hair whenever she rode her sand steed, of her bright laughter and how she made Sansa laugh.

“This wasn’t in the stories,” Sansa told Lady one night. Lady was now larger than the largest dog around so Sansa had to stretch her arms to hug Lady’s neck. “Well,” she amended, “not in the stories north of Dorne.”

Lady nuzzled at Sansa’s cheek. The fire gave judgmental crackles at the grate. The air was becoming cooler, with winter coming soon.

“But even in Dornish songs,” Sansa murmured, “the princess likes her lover.” With a jolt, she buried her hot face on Lady’s neck. “Oh gods! What am I – look at me saying – thinking of – of a lover – I – ”

Lady whined in sympathy.

“I don’t know if – why I’m thinking of being her lover! I don’t even know if the princess feels that way. Surely not.”

Sansa bit on her tongue. She was being ridiculous. Foolish and silly and unbelievably ridiculous. She pressed her face on Lady’s fur.

*

A few moons before summer’s end, the king held a feast for the whole day. Sansa sat beside Princess Rhaenys during the games and wore her flower comb. Then they went to the river under the castle, the flowers and ribbons from lords and knights clutched in Sansa’s hand.

The sun sparkled gold and white on the river, and ladies splashed in the waters, light dresses of silk and cotton clinging to them. The men hovered several feet from the banks, with longing looks to be splashed upon.

Sansa and Princess Rhaenys unlaced each other’s gowns and soon, the Princess was wading into the water in a black silk dress, a few ladies flocking around her. Sansa chose to stand over a rock, looking over the rippling waters and the laughing ladies.

“Will you not swim with us, Lady Sansa?” Princess Rhaenys called out.

Sansa brandished her bells. “I will play and sing for you, if it please Your Grace.”

For quite some time Sansa sang and played as the ladies danced in the water. She sang some of the songs she’d written and some found in the books. More ladies rambled towards the river and some cheekier men had sat by the banks in thin white shirts.

“Lady Allyria has taken up the harp,” Princess Rhaenys said as she drifted over to Sansa. “You can rest for now. It will be a cold and bitter winter if you tire out your voice, Lady Sansa.”

Princess Rhaenys was smiling up at Sansa, her hair damply clinging to her cheeks and neck, and she still looked beautiful. This was what a flower must look like after a rain.

Sansa took off her flower comb and settled it next to the bells. “Your Grace might tire of my singing, eventually.”

The water was cool to Sansa’s toes, insistent to her silk gown, and as she finally sank to her waist, warm from the sun.

“Of course not,” Princess Rhaenys said. “Do you tire of lemons?”

“No, Your Grace,” Sansa said, her lips twitching.

“Do I tire of fruits?” Princess Rhaenys was grinning now, her full lips stretched back from her strong-looking teeth. What would it feel to kiss those lips, Sansa wondered, and promptly felt dizzy.

So she shook her head, unable to speak.

It took a few more moments before Sansa realised that she was still utterly unable to speak. When she blinked to clear her head, Sansa also realised that it didn’t help that the princess was so close. Close enough to kiss.

Sansa wondered if dunking her own head in the water would help.

“What is it?” Princess Rhaenys asked. “Lady Sansa?”

“I -”

There were the tiniest water droplets on Princess Rhaenys’ lips. They were the shade of pomegranates, those lips. Sansa had carefully eaten the pomegranate that Princess Rhaenys had given her on her nameday, as the lemons knocked about her brain and she despaired with Lady and weighed the Westerosi songs.

But Sansa had written her own songs before.

Sansa steeled herself. She could feel her hands curling into fists beneath the water. “Your Grace is very admirable,” she said, and waded closer. Her voice came out tight and hoarse. Then, tighter and hoarser still, Sansa said, “If it please Your Grace,” before she carefully kissed the princess on one dewy cheek.

They were so very close. Princess Rhaenys was staring at her with parted lips. Even the princess’ long eyelashes were clumped with water, framing her intent eyes as she watched Sansa move and kiss her other cheek.

In a sudden splashing of water, Princess Rhaenys was hurrying them behind a tall rock, nestled between river plants and the walls of the castle.

“Yes,” Princess Rhaenys breathed out. “Yes, it pleases me. Your kisses pleased me.”

Sansa didn’t know where this boldness was coming from. “My cheek kisses for Your Grace?”

“Any kiss from you, my lady,” Princess Rhaenys rasped out. “What would please you to bestow upon me?”

“I want to kiss your lips,” was Sansa’s rushed and bald reply. Dear _gods_.

Princess Rhaenys whispered, “Yes.”

Sansa didn’t remember when the two of them had grasped at each other’s arms, but the distance had been short before she felt Princess Rhaenys’ lips one hers. They were soft and firm at the same time. Sansa didn’t know. It was as if she was numb and oversensitive at the same time. Sansa shuddered at the cool lapping of the water and at the warm prickle on every spot of her skin that Princess Rhaenys touched. Beneath the soggy silk, the princess’ shoulders and arms were lean to the touch. Sansa fleetingly considered what those shoulders and arms would look like bare. Her eyes would’ve crossed if they weren’t closed.

“Gods,” Princess Rhaenys gasped out when they parted. Sansa’s eyes fluttered open and she agreed. “I cannot believe this is finally -” Another peck on Sansa’s lips. “I wanted to kiss you for a long time.”

Sansa leaned in for another kiss, and this time she could feel the both of them grinning.

*

They hurried out of the river as discreetly as they could, grabbing their gowns and flowers and Sansa’s bells.

As soon as the princess’ chambermaids closed the doors, Sansa had her fingers tangled in Princess Rhaenys’ wet hair and kissing her. It was just as heady a sensation as it was in the river. It was not the sun doing things in Sansa’s head, after all.

It wasn’t long before Princess Rhaenys was mouthing kisses on Sansa’s neck in a way that made Sansa press her thighs together. To reign in something molten and throbbing within her.

It wasn’t also long before the cling of the soggy dresses became uncomfortable.

Princess Rhaenys was quick to discard her dress and smallclothes. And she was stunning. A seemingly eternal expanse of deep brown skin, a generous swell of hips, thighs that looked like they could crush Sansa, and heavy breasts. It left Sansa both lightheaded and dismayed, seeing the princess so casual and confident in her nakedness. Sansa’s toes tensed on the rich rug as she hunched in on herself.

“What is it?” Princess Rhaenys’ voice was gentle as she clasped at Sansa’s hands.

“I -” Sansa gulped. “I’ve never been naked in front of – in front of anyone but my maids.”

“You have never had a lover.”

“No.”

Sansa looked at the princess’ eyes. From a distant sort of way, she noted that they were nearly of the same height.

“That is quite all right.” Princess Rhaenys smiled, rubbing Sansa’s arms reassuringly. When she pressed a kiss on Sansa’s lips, it was not as heated but it remained simmering.

But Sansa couldn’t stand wet clothes on her skin, and she wished to let Princess Rhaenys see her as she was seeing the princess. She couldn’t quite put a finger on why she wished it to be so, except that it felt honest.

Slowly, Sansa stepped out of her dress.

Sansa let her arms remain on her sides.

Princess Rhaenys cupped Sansa’s face and asked against her lips, “What would you like to do today?”

Sansa could barely focus with a lot of the princess’ skin flushed against a lot of her own skin, so all she could say was, “A lot of kissing, Your Grace.”

Princess Rhaenys drew back a bit with a troubled frown. “Not like that,” she said. “Please never address me as such when we are alone.”

“But,” Sansa said, “it’s the proper way.”

“It is like stepping out of your dress,” Princess Rhaenys said. “We are naked now, yes? When I kissed you in the river, I became Rhaenys. When you kissed me, you became Sansa.”

Sansa bit on her lip and considered this. Perhaps it has a point. In the songs, the lovers still addressed each other properly when they were alone. But this wasn’t a song, and Sansa had written her own songs before.

What Princess Rhaenys was saying felt as honest as Sansa shedding her dress. Sansa could get used to it.

Sansa smiled and closed their tiny distance again. “Of course,” she told Rhaenys.

*

“Since when?” Sansa asked. She licked her fingers and picked up another lemon cake.

They had just finished supper in the king’s solar. Amidst the smoke from their beef stew the king had asked Rhaenys of when she would return to Dragonstone. It had been three weeks since Sansa and Rhaenys kissed in the river, three weeks of nothing more than naked kissing, but at that moment in the king’s solar table Sansa’s stomach twisted in a sour knot.

“I cannot exactly remember,” Rhaenys said. “It might be here in my apartments. Ages ago, when you were so steadfast with your duties. Before that I was under the impression that you were terribly naïve, although a terribly sweet one.”

It was Sansa’s turn to look troubled. She lifted up her head from Rhaenys’ shoulder and put down her half-eaten lemon cake.

“What am I to you – Rhaenys?”

Rhaenys held Sansa’s hand. “I love a lot about you, Sansa. I love your kindness and your attention to detail and your love for songs.” Rhaenys traced a light finger on Sansa’s palm. “I love how expressive your eyes can be as well as mirror a quiet strength in you. I also love your wit.” Her hand squeezed Sansa’s before she brought up their twined hands to kiss Sansa’s knuckles. It was then that Sansa noticed the slight trembling of Rhaenys’ hand. “I love your hair and smile. You – you are my love, Sansa.”

It was very lovely. Ideally this would have made Sansa swoon, hearing all these from a person who was admirable and beautiful, and there was a part of Sansa that was already on the way to the fainting pillow.

Instead, she tugged at their joined hands to kiss on Rhaenys’ before saying, “But I’m not your wife.”

Rhaenys’ face fell. “No.”

“And someday,” Sansa continued, “I am to be someone’s wife and you will return to your husband.”

They stared at each other for a while, their fingers still knotted together. Sansa didn’t know before this that it was possible to glow and be miserable at the same time.

Then with sudden vigour, Rhaenys said, “Be my companion.”

“To be honest, I’m already your lady companion in all but name.”

“No.” A grin was blooming on Rhaenys’ face. “Be my companion in Dragonstone. You are a woman grown now, and your wardship is at an end. Sansa, be my companion in Dragonstone.”

It was mad. Gods. It had to be.

*

Sansa had said, “Yes.”

Rhaenys had kissed her firmly and tenderly and tumbled them down to the rug after Sansa had said yes.

Father had written that he had hoped for Sansa to visit Winterfell and the North. Mother had written to ask if Sansa had flowered yet and to tell her of Mother’s best wishes and certainty that Sansa would shine in the Dragonstone court.

In the Thrones Room the king had paused and, face solemn, told Rhaenys that he wished them happiness in a dear friendship. The queen peered between Sansa and Rhaenys with keen eyes and said, softly, “I agree with His Grace. I am glad to know that both of you will find comfort whilst fulfilling your duties.”

In a week, through the heavy air gathering chill, Sansa was crossing Blackwater Bay with Rhaenys and Lady. Before the fog swallowed up the shore, Sansa sought one last glimpse of the Dragonpit for she loved the song about the storming of the pit and never got the chance to visit it.

*

Sansa stayed in Dragonstone longer than she had expected.

In the past three years she had served as Rhaenys’ lady companion with the appropriate allowance and with some gifts from the members of the court in the form of gowns and combs and shoes. At first Sansa marveled at these gifts, at the yards of silk and lace, but soon she realised that they were a form of bribery to get to Rhaenys.

“We need more crabs for the ambassador’s welcoming feast, Your Grace,” the cook once said, a week before the envoy from Volantis passed by Dragonstone on the way to King’s Landing.

They were in the small dining room in the western side of the castle, the fire roaring to ward off the winter chill. Sansa stood a little behind Rhaenys as the princess presided over the steward, the cook, and the head of the household guards.

“So we do,” Rhaenys murmured. “As well as scallops and lettuce. I am told that the ambassador dislikes plain bread.” The tiny golden suns and various beads on Rhaenys’ wrists clinked as she put her chin between thumb and forefinger in thought.

“Would bread with cheese suffice, Your Grace?” the cook said.

“What bread would suffice, Lady Sansa?” Rhaenys said.

Sansa found the rest of the room’s eyes on her. The cook had his blond eyebrows raised. The steward had a subtly resigned expression, and the captain of the guards looked curious.

“Lemon bread, Your Grace,” Sansa said, “for the fresh aroma. But cheese sounds fine as well.”

Rhaenys’ lips quirked. “Lemon bread it is, then, Seymon,” she told the cook before turning to Sansa with, “Oh, and my dear Lady Sansa, you could assist us with the table placements.”

The steward had a less subtly resigned expression.

The next day Sansa had a crowd of courtiers asking for favourable seating places.

“I can’t do that, my lady,” Sansa told Lady Celtigar. “Lord Velaryon will be seated one place below from the prince and princess, and Lord Tarth will be across from him.”

Lady Celtigar pointy features sharpened even further. “You cannot possibly – let us be practical here, Lady Sansa. My son has already said you know the politics of this region, but still – and we have provided the large amounts of butter for the feast. The bread alone, well. Besides, Lord Tarth hasn’t got a male heir. The dinner will be a chance to reconnect -”

“The seating is final, my lady,” Sansa said, gently. “We will be having lemon bread for the feast.”

Lady Celtigar’s bony hand gripped on her ivory-tipped cane. “But the butter!”

“There will be lots of cake, of course.”

“Nonsense. The prince and princess have such small fondness for rich cakes.”

Sansa hoped her smile was both placating and relatively ignorant. “The princess has assured us that there will be lots of cake.” Then she added, “But I have also made sure with the cook that there will be lots of fruit in other cakes for the prince and princess.”

“Of course you have, Lady Sansa,” Ser Justin Massey mildly put in.

Sansa narrowed her eyes but kept her face vaguely nice and helpful.

The lemon bread was successful. The ambassador complimented Rhaenys’ household management and invited her to ride with them the next day. There would be tamer weather because winters by the narrow sea weren’t as harsh as the northern ones, so they also planned to hunt afterwards.

“I am not joining the hunt,” Rhaenys assured Sansa in a low voice. They were standing by Rhaenys’ horse whilst Sansa handed her a pair of gloves lined with wool. “These are lovely,” Rhaenys said, beaming at Sansa after she saw Sansa’s embroidery. “I shall bring you little gifts from the woods.”

It was then that Sansa noticed the strap of the knitted bag half-hidden beneath Rhaenys’ winter cloak. “Sticks and pebbles?” she teased. “It’s winter.”

“Best that you hurry, Rhaenys,” a voice said from behind them. Sansa looked around to see the Prince of Dragonstone clattering over to them, his horse kicking up light snow from the ground. His usually amiable face was creased into a slight frown. “Are you not cold, Lady Sansa?”

Rhaenys gave a very improper snort as she mounted her horse. “Lady Sansa is a Stark of Winterfell. This weather is positively balmy for her.”

Prince Aegon’s frown deepened, and as they sauntered off he drew his horse closer to Rhaenys’ so that he could whisper intently to her.

When they returned, though, Prince Aegon was at a canter and Rhaenys was delirious from milk of the poppy. Sansa dropped her embroidery and rushed to Rhaenys’ chambers as she pieced together the anxious murmurs of the maids: Rhaenys and Prince Aegon had a disagreement, they had been distracted, the horse tripped on a snow-covered root, Rhaenys had pulled a muscle but broke no bones.

Sansa was let in to Rhaenys’ bedchamber. The drapes had been drawn. Prince Aegon was frowning and listening to what the maester was listing: Rhaenys’ bruises, and possible head injuries. Sansa nearly tore off the hem of her gown but she still sank to a curtsy.

“Her Grace must be fed in liquids until she wakes up,” the maester continued. “Honeyed water, perhaps, or broths. For now I think we should open the ambassador’s gift, a chest of almonds, and make a broth of it with celery -”

“No nuts,” Sansa said, briskly.

The maester stuttered to a stop. Prince Aegon turned his royal profile to look at Sansa. “I beg your pardon, my lady?”

“The princess gets ill when she eats nuts, my prince,” Sansa said. “Her eyes get swollen and she gets rashes.”

Prince Aegon looked at her more intently. “I do not – Has she never consumed nuts before?”

“She ate them for the first time a year ago.” Sansa looked at Rhaenys’ sleeping form with worry. She was so very pale and there were crystals of frost and snow clinging to her hair. “Thank the gods she only ate less than a handful.”

Sansa reached under Rhaenys’ bed for the little wooden box of spare linen she had put there. She picked a soft cotton one and proceeded to wipe clean Rhaenys’ tangled hair and cold, pale face. A tremor passed through her hand but Sansa willed herself to be steady. Prince Aegon and the maester watched her in silence.

  
“The princess must have fruit when she awakes, Your Grace,” Sansa said. She kept her voice appeasing, to let the prince think she was suggesting it to him, but she also kept her voice firm: what she said was what had to be done. “Wheat bread to break her fast. Her Grace only drinks boiled water with lemon squeezings or tea brewed black.”

“Of course,” Prince Aegon said.

“Now that she sleeps, honeyed water would be best, as our maester said,” Sansa continued. She flipped over her cotton linen to wipe down the length of Rhaenys’ hair. “Please see to it that the water is boiled. Chicken broth as well. Her Grace does adore chicken, and it’s healthy besides. But no nuts.”

“You are a very good friend, Lady Sansa,” Prince Aegon said after the maester had bustled off. Sansa paused from combing Rhaenys’ hair to look up at the prince. In the wintry light of the dark room, his pale hair was all that Sansa could clearly see.

“Thank you, my prince.”

“But good friends are not without faults.” Prince Aegon gave her a steady look. “Rhaenys and I were – strongly – discussing your duty at the welcoming feast.”

Sansa found that Prince Aegon didn’t have as much gravity as the king had. She knew she should lower her eyes. Once upon a time, she would have fallen for Prince Aegon. “I do my best with what the princess commands of me, Your Grace. She has found the seating satisfactory.”

Prince Aegon’s mouth twisted. “Yes, well. Rhaenys and I do have some – differences – in how politics is handled.”

Sansa watched the prince meander out. She couldn’t find it in herself to feel shame, looking him in the eye. She felt rather selfish.

“I got you something,” was the first thing Rhaenys said upon waking two days later. “In my little bag.” She swallowed and blinked blearily at Sansa. “It is a surprise.”

Sansa’s laugh was wet with relief and disbelief. She gently pushed a spoon of hot water with lemon against Rhaenys’ lips. “Drink this, you darling.”

“Is it time for the audience?”

It was an hour before dawn. If Sansa had any say in the matter, she would have postponed Rhaenys’ attendance for today’s audience. “Not for a few hours. Are you hungry? I could warm some bread for you here.”

Sansa was also always present whenever Rhaenys received audience with Prince Aegon. And Rhaenys always attended these audiences. She could coax a relieved or grateful smile from a beleaguered fisherman, provide sound advice for a farmer, jape with the wittiest innkeeper.

“I dislike receiving audience,” Rhaenys once told Sansa.

Sansa was on the floor of her own bedchamber, her skirts in a sprawl, having her hair plaited as she leaned her shoulder against Rhaenys’ thigh. “You’re very good at it.”

“That does not mean I look forward to it.” Rhaenys swept back a lock of Sansa’s hair. “It is very tedious. I do love meeting people and helping them, truly, but in this very required way -” Sansa knew that Rhaenys was shaking her head. “I feel trapped.”

Now that Sansa knew what to look for, she saw that Rhaenys barely contained her dissatisfaction. Rhaenys was always riding around Dragonstone. She urged the courtiers and the people of the court to be free with telling stories and she laughed freely as well. Rhaenys was always thinking of little games and gambles for the court, of little themes with their food, and always danced with Sansa. Sansa heard whispers, often fond whispers, of how the princess’ ideas were outrageous. A bit mad.

“I loved it best when we went to the Street of Flour,” Rhaenys said when Sansa confronted her with sleeping so late into the night. It couldn’t be healthy. Sansa would wake up to drink a cup of water and she would find Rhaenys still awake, softly stroking Sansa’s hair.

Sansa blinked at this sharp turn of the conversation. “Rhaenys.”

“They did not recognise us in the Street of Flour.” Rhaenys peered up from Sansa’s lap, faint black smudges under her eyes. “It made me so happy. It is nice. To always be happy that you have no chance to be sad.”

It made Sansa’s heart ache. But Sansa was selfish, she had come to accept this, so she silently agreed. She wanted that time in the Street of Flour. Rhaenys made her happy as well.

Another very required thing was Prince Aegon’s visits to Rhaenys’ chambers. On those nights, twice a moon’s turn, Sansa would sit in the library and write pining letters for home. Dragonstone was damp and dreary, rather like the North. But where Winterfell was hushed in the chill, persistent waves always crashed on Dragonstone and thunder frequently rumbled above the Dragonmont.

And Prince Aegon, though affable and often hunted in the woods below Dragonmont as much as the weather allowed, was a constant spectre in Dragonstone. Even the sight of his white blond hair and smiling eyes had Sansa’s heart thumping an ugly beat, and she didn’t like it.

Sansa was very much aware that he was the heir to the Iron Throne and that Rhaenys was his wife and they had duties. And Sansa was aware that she herself had swerved from what was supposed to be. If she took this story in her own hands, she would not do it halfway. She was not supposed to be a mistress, a guilty and hidden love, unlike the paramours of Dorne. If Rhaenys had been a man, Sansa might well be on her way to bearing a bastard.

During one such hunt of the prince’s, when the countryside had begun to thaw, Sansa told Rhaenys, “I wish to – to say something.”

Rhaenys looked up from a ledger, her long hair pulled and braided to the side and shimmering silk drooped from her elbows. She looked comfortable and very much like a princess, and her eyes made Sansa breathless and breath-rich at the same time. It made Sansa wish the very best for Rhaenys.

“What is it?”

Sansa inhaled and said, “My place is with you, Rhaenys. I want you to know that. My place is with you.”

Rhaenys stood up and said in a careful voice, “Sansa? What is wrong?”

“My place is with you,” Sansa said, “but your place is here. The wife of the heir. One day you will be queen. I love you.” There was a lump in Sansa’s throat. “I love you, gods help me, I do and I don’t quite know how it happened, but I can’t – I can’t be your mistress for the years to come. We will always be hiding. Half of the good thing that we have is built on secrecy and lies -”

Rhaenys cradled Sansa’s face in both of her hands. “Why did you not tell me sooner?”

“I’ve just been realising it, sitting with you in court.” Sansa gripped at both of Rhaenys’ wrists but made no move to bat them away. Perhaps to draw steadiness for herself, because the words keep spilling out of Sansa. “I want to hold your hand out there and reassure you in your counsels. I want to kiss you in the open, under the fiery sun or the winter skies. I want to ride with you and put my arms around you. I want to protect you and shield you from those fickle and plotting men in court. I want for you to stop drinking the moon tea. I know you drink it.”

“I drink it because I have no wish for my body to be subjected to pregnancy,” Rhaenys whispered. Her eyes were trembling, and so were her voice and her palms upon Sansa’s cheeks. “That, and because I have no wish to bear someone else’s child whilst your eyes are the first things I see when I wake and the last before I sleep.”

“Oh, Rhaenys.” Sansa let her forehead touch Rhaenys. She moved her hands from Rhaenys’ wrists to let their fingers knot together on either side of Sansa’s face. “I want to make you happy. I want to make your happiness free and true, unlike what you told me. Of keeping yourself happy all the time so that there won’t be chance for sadness.”

“I want to make you happy and content, Sansa. And I want that time when we were in the Street of Flour.”

Sansa drew a sharp breath as her mind took a sharp turn. She could feel a tremor budding at the tips of her suddenly cold fingers. “Let’s run away.”

Rhaenys drew back a bit to stare at her.

“Somewhere. Someplace,” Sansa plowed on. “Outside of Westeros the rules don’t apply. It’s all relative, you said it once, Rhaenys.”

It was a relief that Rhaenys didn’t untangle her fingers from Sansa’s. In fact, Rhaenys had closed her eyes and had gone very still. When she opened them again, there was a faint smile on her face.

“They do not,” Rhaenys agreed. “Sansa.”

Sansa turned her head to kiss Rhaenys’ palm.

“I thought of running away with you,” Rhaenys whispered. “In my dreams. I did not think – Sansa, I am relieved.”

“Are you saying yes?” Sansa asked, and was mildly appalled to find her voice tremulous.

Sansa had failed to envision this as a child in Winterfell. This was not supposed to happen in the stories. But the people of King’s Landing were not supposed to storm the Dragonpit and kill the dragons either. Sansa could write her own songs.

“Yes.” Rhaenys leaned in and kissed Sansa full on the lips. “Yes.”

*

The thunderstorm had stopped long before the bathwater had cooled. Eventually, Rhaenys stepped out of the tub in a whiff of rose and lavender scents and stepped over her blood stained garments to take Sansa’s hand.

Sansa couldn’t exactly encapsulate what it feels like to kiss Rhaenys. That was because Sansa always get so immersed whenever they kissed.

Tonight she pressed Rhaenys to the sheets. Rhaenys’ hands were bunching Sansa’s smallclothes but her lips and tongue were not as insistent. Sansa mouthed kisses from Rhaenys’ lips to her cheek, from her jaw to the leaping pulse on her throat. Sansa clutched at the sheets and ground against Rhaenys’ thigh.

  
“Yes,” Rhaenys murmured. She managed to do away with Sansa’s smallclothes and then she was gripping Sansa’s hips.

Rhaenys left a molten trail of heavy kisses from Sansa’s stomach to her breasts to the inside of her thighs as Sansa crawled to position and gripped at the oaken headboard of the bed. This particular position always left Sansa feeling the most exposed. Her breathing was ragged. Her neck and scalp felt warm.

“Are you comfortable?” Sansa said. She always made sure that there were enough pillows and that Rhaenys wouldn’t break her neck.

“Yes.” It was nearly a purr. A warm breath very near where Sansa was already wet and clenching. Rhaenys snaked an arm behind Sansa’s thigh so that she could part the lips of Sansa’s cunt. “You can sit down.”

Oh my _gods_ , Sansa thought before devolving into white noise.

Rhaenys wafted between relentless and languid. Long, bold licks. Sucking at the little bundle of nerves. Dipping her tongue and fingers inside the clutch of Sansa. Sansa trembled and slumped against the headboard. Deliriously, she thought that nothing was better than sitting on Rhaenys’ mouth, not even sitting on a throne. She had Sansa on the palm of her hand and between her jaws, and Sansa wouldn’t wish to be anywhere else.

Everything felt tight. Sweat was dripping from the back of her knees and between her breasts, and a wetness was clinging on the inside of her thighs, made hot by Rhaenys’ hums. Sansa wanted to swallow up Rhaenys whole, to suck her into Sansa’s cunt and then all the way inside.

Sansa’s hips stuttered. Rhaenys dragged two fingers out just as she fucked her tongue in, and Sansa was wailing brokenly.

There was an ache in Sansa’s thighs as the made her shaky way back from the headboard. She could feel her heartbeat throbbing on the lips of her cunt. Sansa fondled Rhaenys’ breasts and kissed her neck.

Rhaenys wiped at her mouth and looked pleased to be filthy. “We can play our little games soon,” she said as she ran her hands up and down Sansa’s sides.

Sansa bit off a moan. They usually delayed Sansa’s orgasms for hours at a time. Sansa loved being teased and Rhaenys loved teasing. They could be rough with their hands and kisses, and soon they could be as loud as they wanted. Rhaenys could fit her entire fist inside Sansa, and soon Sansa could sob and wail without biting off the sheets. Soon Sansa could indulge Rhaenys with being inappropriate where they could be caught without fearing for their lives when they did get caught.

Soon.

Tomorrow morning they would go for their customary walk with Lady. Under the skies and in the cradle of the trees of the gods, Rhaenys would give Sansa a necklace with a pendant of dragonglass, polished after it was picked up from the woods below Dragonmont and kept in Rhaenys’ knitted little bag. Then Sansa would give Rhaenys a necklace with a pendant of a lock of Lady’s fur encased in ivory. They would murmur their love and devotion before the old gods and the new.

Tomorrow Rhaenys would send word that she and Sansa were to have their knitting undisturbed in her chambers, but they would be darting out of the castle in rough spun cloaks and dirtied faces and dyed hair. Tomorrow they would board a ship to Volantis with Lady, a sack of possessions each, Sansa’s saved allowance from her time in court, and as much royal gold as they could carry. By then their ravens to King’s Landing and Winterfell would be on their way, and Sansa and Rhaenys would be aboard with a group of medical people and merchants sailing back to Volantis. Queen Elia would understand. Seize the chance, she once told them.

Soon Rhaenys would use the gold to set up a business of purified water and Sansa would sew hats and dresses to sell. They would live within their means. They would stroll the markets together. They would kiss in any room of their house. They would disagree and argue, but they would always come home to each other.

They would think of new names for themselves for their businesses. Sansa would be Madam Glass. Rhaenys would be Madam Ivory.

But tonight, Sansa just threw an arm across Rhaenys’ stomach whilst Rhaenys rubbed Sansa’s shoulder.

A warmth was settling deep in Sansa’s bones. Running away with Rhaenys had to be the most selfish and the most selfless thing she had ever done. Sansa wanted the best for Rhaenys and she wished she could be a knight to protect Rhaenys but she could do her best. She loved Rhaenys, Sansa realised once again. It was quite terrifying, but she trusted Rhaenys to hold her hand through it all.

“You have this thoughtful expression on your face,” Rhaenys murmured. “What is it?”

Sansa peered at Rhaenys’ beautiful eyes. “It’s nice holding your hand. I’d like to hold your hand.”

Rhaenys reached for Sansa’s hand on Rhaenys’ stomach. “You will. We will hold hands for a long, long time.”

 

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me if there are any mistakes I might have missed. I got ill for a week and still feel a bit fuzzy.
> 
> When not scrambling for coursework deadlines or daydreaming about fics I'm short on time to write, I'm over at blotsandcreases.tumblr.com sighing happily at all the great things. :)


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